


An Honest Love

by ArcheaMajuar



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Almost no plot, And love, Episode Related, Episode: s02e08 The Kidnapped Prime Minister, Established Relationship, I just needed to write something like this about them loving each other, M/M, POV Hastings, Set during the episode, just tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 02:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcheaMajuar/pseuds/ArcheaMajuar
Summary: “You look truly handsome today,” remarked my dear friend, his eyes buried into mine and the warmth within them surging into me, right into my burning cheeks.





	An Honest Love

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my mother tongue as I'm from the Czech Republic. There are mistakes in the story, I know, but I just don't have anyone around to give me their feedback on the fic, grammar and so on (but if you'd like to let me know about the mistakes, please, do so in the comments or just send me an email (you find it on my profile page), it'd be much appreciated)
> 
> I'm really sorry for the errors, but I hope you'll enjoy this work anyway :)
> 
> God, I fell so hard for this pairing... This little story is just a result of me being obsessed with them, unable to cope with my love for them... and for each other. It's basically about that. About their mutual love for each other.

We made our way back to the hotel, which I certainly appreciated. The night was rather cold and the attitude of the nervous politician who hired Poirot was the same. Couldn’t blame them, I say, as it seemed that Poirot utterly ignored how serious the situation was, but I knew it was so just on the surface. Even though I did not understand the train of thoughts of my dear friend, I at most believed he behaved in such a way on purpose. He knew something we did not, which nagged me a little, yet I was quite used to be left in the dark, so as usually I settled for padding constantly by Poirot’s side in case he would need me.

He had not entrusted me with a particular task yet, but I sensed there was something about to happen, however, as I was fairly tired, I was almost joyful it was not going to happen till the next morning. Poirot called it a night, scuttling away from the baffled politician whom I gladly left behind as well, hurrying my steps to catch up with my friend.

To explain why I was so happy we parted with the government chaps, it was their attitude towards Poirot that I was troubled by. As I had already said, the Belgian’s secretive and a bit irritating behaviour undoubtedly deserved to be disapproved of, but the politician’s increasing hostility was amiss, I reckon. It was, indeed, disturbing to watch them bestowing Poirot with such disdainful looks, and I had to fight hard the urge to enlighten them, to explain that they are disrespectful to the greatest detective in whole Europe, but then Poirot only smiled at them and walked away.

And to be honest, following him to the hotel appeared to be a much more alluring idea than arguing with chaps I was close to despising. 

While standing in the elevator, Poirot remained quiet, probably thinking about the case still, but once I very, very subtly yawned, he flashed me with an amused smile.

“Feeling sleepy, my dear Hastings?” he asked me, yet the question bore an underlying meaning, aiming not exactly at my ears as I violently shivered. 

“A bit, yes,” I conceded, however, by each second we prolonged our eye contact my tiredness felt less and less urgent, my heartbeat increasing slightly as we left the elevator, heading for our rooms. Of course, we did not have a common room, but fortunately, they provided us with a joined pair of them. Since our arrival, the connecting door had not been closed.

“I will get myself ready for bed and then we shall discuss the further… plans, yes?” he gave me a sidelong gaze before entering his room, the almost vibrating tone of his velvet voice sending another wave of trembles down my spine.

“Of course,” forcing myself to nod, I glanced to him briefly, gulping at the sight as the corner of his mouth was wickedly twitched upwards, perfectly assuring me that his intentions were far from innocent. “Further plan… Jolly good!”

I was quite sure I heard Poirot chuckling as I fumbled with my key, but when I made entrance I was able to calm down a shard. Combing my hair with my fingers, I looked around the room, trying to find myself an occupation for the subsequent fifteen minutes. At last I remembered there was a folded newspaper in my coat which I right away took off, hanging it on the rack and bringing the newspaper to the sofa. It was placed conveniently in front of the stove, heating the room pleasantly, so I undid the first button of my shirt, the same I did with the buttons on my sleeves, and as I still felt quite warm, I also eased my tie.

Lying down on the sofa, I made myself comfortable, and then I leafed through the pages, searching for something interesting to read, yet I dare say it was not at all surprising that in a span of mere seconds I plunged into catching up on the results of cricket matches. However, it did not busy me for more than a few minutes, so I opted for looking for some information about the political meeting the kidnaped prime minister was supposed to participate in. It was not a difficult task to do, indeed, as two whole pages were commenting on it, stressing it was going to be held in France.

Was it possible the French would do such a thing as kidnapping? Maybe a violent group of patriots do not wish the prime minister to arrive to the meeting because… because…

“Is there something wrong, Hastings?” I heard a voice behind my back to where I turned, smiling lightly at Poirot dressed in his dark blue nightgown. Mild vibrations spread from my navel to other parts of my body, tingling pleasantly while I looked back at the newspaper which I lowered to my lap probably when I was furiously trying to figure the whole kidnap case out.

“Not really, I… I was just wondering whether the prime minister is, indeed, still in England, that’s it,” I said simply, gazing at the article for another few seconds before I started folding them, intending to rise to my feet instantly, but I was caught off guard by a gentle touch upon my cheek.

Without a shadow of hesitation my smile broadened and I leaned into Poirot’s caressing hand, his palm delicately soft and warm. If I was able to I would purr as a cat, but regretfully I was not capable of it, so I still quite happily settled for closing my eyes and letting out a long, content and all the tension within me ousting breath.

“I believe he has never left England,” answered Poirot quietly, continuing in spoiling me with his touches that moved to my neck once I bared it, my head falling backwards. I hummed, feeling sensationally as Poirot’s fingertips were dancing upon the very thin skin of my throat, reigniting the sparkles of blossoming arousal in me. As my eyes fluttered open, I looked up to the detective who was smiling fondly down at me, and all the thoughts about our case faded away when I basked in the attention Poirot was granting me with, in his touch, in the adoration glittering in the brown depths of his tender eyes.

My heart throbbed, overflowing with sheer love towards the man to whose intellect I could not hold a candle, the man brilliant and kind and so unexpectedly enamoured of me, an ordinary Englishman who had been his whole life nothing but mediocre in everything he did, yet… yet I was the only person in the world who was so lucky to be worthy of the most honest love of excellent Hercule Poirot.

“You look truly handsome today,” remarked my dear friend, his eyes buried into mine and the warmth within them surging into me, right into my burning cheeks.

“Poirot…” I lowered my gaze under the weight of modesty, preventing me from taking him by his word. I knew he meant it, but… but it seemed too surreal as I did not do anything in particular today to be, as he said, truly handsome…

“Oh, yes, my Hastings, you have no idea how tempting a mere sight at you is… Those charming blue eyes, those high cheek bones…” he said gently, brushing the said part of my face with his thumb, making me shiver once again, but this time mainly due to his speech and the determination it bore. “As much as you never cease to enchant me with the honest nature of yours, today, I was on numerous occasions stunned by the angelic beauty of your physical features, mon cher Arthur…”

Closing my eyes, a quivering breath escaped my mouth as I was struggling to cope with the amount of endearments, of admiration that was crushing my constricted chest. Blushing, my heart aching with love for Poirot, I forced myself to reopen my watering eyes only to witness Poirot’s hand relocating to my hair, scratching my scalp in the most delicious way.

Breath shallow and tears burning, I moaned quietly under his ministrations because I simply wanted to show him how much I cherished these moments when I, and only I, was in the centre of his attention.

“The dishevelled hair, those sounds you make…” he continued in a lower voice than earlier as arousal struck him as well. Coming a little closer to me, he could finally reach me also with the other hand, passing by the collar of my shirt, exploiting the fact I eased it as well as the tie, which I bet he now welcomed to the same extend as I did.

I, indeed, produced a sound similar to purring, excited and satisfied at once, when Poirot’s warm hand slipped under the fabric of my shirt, touching my heaving chest, caressing it in slow, unhurried motions, yet somewhat possessively, which deeply fascinated me, making me long for touching him in the exact way.

“Dear Lord…” I sighed brokenly, founding myself on the absolute verge of devastation caused by Poirot’s gentle hands, by his words and gestures while every single one of them was persuading me about his infinite affection. “Dear Lord, how much I love you… I…” proclaiming softly, I abruptly gulped, shifting a bit in my position to narrow my neck for a while, but in the end I fully turned to my friend, looking up to him with tears in my eyes, “I… I wish I could find sufficient words to explain… words to pour my heart into… though I’m afraid it’s beyond my capacity. I…” trailed my voice off once Poirot withdrew his hand from my shirt, bringing it back to my face.

“It is not necessary to put what you feel into words, mon amour,” his eyes full of fondness, voice unbelievably soothing, smile reassuring, and that was the moment I realized he was… he was happy. When looking at me and caressing my cheek tenderly, he seemed to be the happiest man in the world, almost glowing, almost floating.

“It is nice, naturellement, to hear it I mean, but I see it in every look you give, in every cheerful smile you grant me with, and in every touch we dare to exchange,” Poirot ensured me, gazing down at me, and there was nothing but the truth written in his features.

Smiling hesitantly, I was relieved a bit, but mostly feeling light-headed and joyful about my previous revelation as there was nothing else in the world that would make me happier but the particular piece of knowledge that the man I loved was happy.

“Will you come to bed with me tonight, Arthur?” he asked me, his brown eyes starring intensely into mine, and under all the love he held for me, I again recognized the underlying fire I desired to feel upon my skin desperately.

My mouth watered, mind focused on a sole notion which sent a bolt of arousal through my body, completely forgetting any last remnants of exhaustion.

Grasping his hand on my cheek with my own, I nodded as I became quite eager to fulfil his inquiry, “Let’s go,” I said, standing up from the sofa, and once I finished my movement I expected to be lead to the other room, but Poirot had a different idea.

As he clutched my hand in his palm, he gently tugged me to close the distance between us and I not so bemusedly complied, being well aware of the hunger lingering in Poirot’s eyes. With my free fingers I touched his face, bowing down to his lips, kissing my friend, my lover, my everything with my heart racing as it was trying to be heard by Poirot, as it was trying to speak to him on its own.

And then, I quietly whimpered into our kiss when a palm sneaked under my shirt, being planted right where my heart was thundering. Absolutely taken aback by such deep gesture, I poured as much emotion into the kiss as I could while brushing Poirot’s soft cheek with my thumb. Tasting his lips, meeting his tongue, devouring his mouth… I needed him, I wanted him, and I… I had him_, _was my another realization of the night.

He was mine, I repeated internally, because the thought was so… so beautiful. So delicate. And so… true.

With the parting of our lips, I stared wildly into the brown depths as Poirot whispered, “Mon Arthur…”

_And this was true as well…_

Swallowing hardly, I smiled at him in the same loving way he was looking at me.

“Yes,” I squeezed his hand in confirmation even though his other hand was right at the source that was not able to fool anyone. “Yours.”

Again, the glint of happiness reached his eyes, and I could not tear my gaze away.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm quite willing to write another chapter...


End file.
